


To Love is to Destroy

by goodgayorganic



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Altered Mental States, Cool, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, I wrote this for school, If you want - Freeform, Imagine your OTP, M/M, Memories, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Murder, Murder-Suicide, Original Character(s), Sad Ending, Suicide, he seems happy but, i did write it for school after all, i guess, is it murder?, it sucks but i thought i'd put it up, it's probably not as bad as it sounds, its gay, m/m - Freeform, maybe a little sad, of sorts, ok, remember i wrote this for a school thing, whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 02:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8186267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodgayorganic/pseuds/goodgayorganic
Summary: If I knew it was going to end like this, maybe I wouldn’t have let it begin. I say that, but I didn’t exactly walk into this half-heartedly. I may not have had much of a choice, but I was eager. I thought I’d follow this man to the ends of the earth. To the end of our world. I once silently swore my life to him, for saving my own.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for an assessment at school. It's not that great but I thought I'd upload it. I haven't really changed anything from what I handed in. Sorry if it sucks. Thanks.

If I knew it was going to end like this, maybe I wouldn’t have let it begin. I say that, but I didn’t exactly walk into this half-heartedly. I may not have had much of a choice, but I was eager. I thought I’d follow this man to the ends of the earth. To the end of our world. I once silently swore my life to him, for saving my own. 

 

Though I can’t remember anything before our first encounter, my trust in him allowed me to believe his story. I can remember our meeting now, as if it happened yesterday, each second of my memory as clear as his eyes.

 

I had woken up to the smell of cigarette smoke. I don’t know how I knew. I don’t recall ever smelling it before waking that day. For a moment, I was calmed by the mild smell of the burning tobacco, before I discerned that for there to be cigarette smoke, there had to be someone burning one. 

I had jolted upright, realising immediately that it was a bad idea. I remember recoiling as a sharp pain shot across my torso. I placed one hand on the ground as I bent forward, trying to smother the flame that burnt my ribs and made smoke rise to my head, blurring my thoughts on the cigarette, replacing the soft grey with a rough, dusty black. At that time, it was, by a long shot the worst pain that my body had ever experienced. Since then, I've had the same and far worse. 

A man had appeared by my side then, and the first thing I noticed was the three-quarter burned tailor-made hanging lazily from his mouth. Looking back at it now, it was about time he gave it a tap to get rid of the ash that was about to fall; and now that I know him well, I know he must have been deep in thought to let it burn so far without doing so.

I can remember following the trail of smoke up to his eyes. I remember ignorantly thinking that they were “sky blue”. After a great deal of speculation and many years of intimacy with him, I can say that they were the type of vivid blue that an expert artist would paint on a woman’s dress, not her eyes. Countless shades of blue blended together like oil paints on the canvas that were the whites of his honest eyes. A true masterpiece, surrounded by long, blond eyelashes that matched his hair. The comparison of the faint grey and intense blue of his eyes made me forget my pain.  
I’m sure it was then, like a bullet from a gun, I fell in love. Shot straight through my heart. Cheesy, I know. I guess looks do breed love.

“Woah-woah, careful there, kid,” were the first words I heard him say. His voice was so kind, just like his whole self, and it was the tenderness in him that drew me in. As he spoke, I had noticed the ash crumble from his cigarette, but I hadn’t cared to follow where it fell.  
The first time I remember his touch was just after he spoke, as he gently lay me back on what I noticed for the first time was grass. 

His gaze was so deep, so dangerously enticing, that I had to break away so I didn’t get lost in it. And when I did, I took in everything around me. A field of lush grass, surrounded by trees, all blooming, and brilliant green. I deduced that we must have been in the middle of a forest somewhere. It looked like it went on forever, as deep as the man’s eyes. If I were to walk into it, it would be a never-ending hike that was impossible to escape from.

I didn’t have a clue as to how I ended up there. I didn’t remember anything before waking up there.

“Ah, excuse me, sorry, can you please tell me what’s going on?” I had asked. I remember my voice cracking just a little. I guessed it was from both nervousness and the lack of moisture in my throat.

“From what I saw, it looks like there was a fire where you lived. I went and checked it out when it died out, but I heard policemen saying no one survived.”  
He spoke quietly, and his voice was reassuring. I wondered for a moment if he were lying. Then I remembered the burning in my ribs and believed the part about the fire.

“Why didn’t you leave me to the police?”

He had stayed silent for a moment, choosing his words carefully. Again, looking back on this now, it was the norm for him. From him, I learned to be polite, to speak just as carefully and rationally around strangers in such situations. Being a gentleman was one of the many things he taught me. (He did provoke enemies in battle with a snide attitude, though.) It was but a tiny sparkle on the diadem of diamonds that I loved about him.

“It was planned.”

That day I learned another thing from him, and it was that there are different types of good people, and different types of bad people. The police were wolves in sheep’s skin, as it were.  
He didn’t tell me what kind of secrets the people in my village held, claiming he didn’t know them. On the flip side, I’m sure he wanted to know them. I’m sure he saved me with the intent of learning them, but I didn’t. I didn’t know anything. He let me stay with him anyway. For that, I am eternally grateful.

After that, I decided to believe him, and follow him. He warned me what I was getting into, but I swore my life to him. He saved mine, so I would give it back. So I’d spent all these years with him, working for him, loving him.

In our line of work, killing came naturally. In self defence, for a job; when it was necessary.  
I knew he was gone when he killed someone who had no association with us. They had no business in dying. He was killing indiscriminately.  
I wonder if I’d have the resolve to stand here now had he not told me to. The day he put down an acquaintance who had lost his mind was the day he told me the words I thought I’d never have to consider.

“If I ever lose my head, shoot me through it.”

So here we are. I’m pointing a gun at him in the field that we met in.  
Fitting. The place of the beginning and the end.  
How is it that this field is still so alive and flourishing, so much that I can see the green of the leaves in the dead of night? 

There is no moon tonight. There is only the faint glow of the stars to light this place where we met. I have a brief moment of gratitude toward the fact that I am so used to working in the dark, and can see so well on a moonless night.  
The field we met in. A new moon. It’s almost funny. 

Yes, here we are. I don’t know exactly how we got here. We must’ve taken some wrong turn somewhere. Even if the reason we ended up at this dead end is that he lost control over himself. Even if he told me to do this. Those could be answers. Are they? I don’t think they answer anything. Why did it have to end up like this? How did we end up here?

But I never thought he’d actually lose his mind like this. He warned me, he did. But he had always been so… surely. His mind was as clear as the eyes that I fell for. Now he’s… gone. I don’t know where the man I loved went; but in his place is someone else. Who? I don’t know. I’ve been sleeping in the same bed as them for 9 days now, and the first day was enough to know it wasn’t him.

I should have ended it sooner, instead of stringing it out, instead of thinking I could fix him. Instead of letting them kill innocent people in his body, standing by and watching, confirming that each move was one that was not his, before deciding to end their reign over him.

The first time I shot a gun, the kickback from the bullet being propelled from the cylinder had thrust my arms into the air. Back when I was first learning, I shot with both hands, a weak aim and posture.  
Now I stand with my feet a shoulder-width apart, and my back straight. Though the reason for the straight back might be the fitted black suit, (these take up most of my wardrobe, at his request). My first gun in one hand, pointed straight toward his head. 

I remember him handing me my first gun. A revolver with a wooden grip. It was old and he said he bought it because it was cheap, but I think he got it because it looked cool. He had one similar that sat around unused, yet stayed well cared for.  
I hardly use mine now, because it lacks power. But it has more than enough power to shoot someone through the head.  
I polished it for the last time before I came out here tonight. Loaded it with two bullets. I wasn’t going to miss. Not even in this darkness. 

The weight is so heavy; my arm feels as though gravity is betting against it; the down pull is synonymous with my cutting feelings of dread; trying to drive my arm into my side to stop what’s about to come. I have to convince myself that that weight doesn’t really exist.

The silence around us was deafening. There were no owls, no crickets, nothing moving. Maybe they sensed the tension. Maybe this field was cursed. I never paid attention to wildlife in this area before. His presence was too distracting.

I break that silence by pulling back the hammer, preparing the first bullet.  
The sound of the gun cocking rings in my ears. For all the guns I’ve cocked before, none of them have sounded quite like this. Even the first time I cocked this very gun with the intention to shoot and kill someone hadn’t sounded like this.

The gun that had always felt so natural in my hand feels foreign as soon as it realises it’s being focused on the giver of it, and the love of it’s master. The gun’s smooth grip used to feel as natural in my hand as his did; but just as his mind was lost, his fingers woven through mine nor this gun in my hand no longer felt comfortable.

He always told me to have solid control over my weapons, not to let them control me; that it was a surefire way of keeping my sanity. What lead him to lose the unmeasurable control he had? Something I will never know, something I will never will never find out.

I feel my eyes water involuntarily as my index finger touches the cold steel of the trigger guard. As it rests there, I remember the well-known advice that he gave me: “don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to pull it.” So I didn’t.

Is now where I say “lingering love breeds mistakes”? “Delay in love is dangerous”? I don’t believe either of those are truly meant for a situation such as this, but anything can fit if you twist it enough, apparently. False alibis, a knife in a person’s flesh, this monster in my beautiful love’s body.

I push my shoulders back and push any lingering memories to the back of my mind. Now is not the time to get sentimental.  
I look into his eyes, blinking back tears successfully to clear my vision. I lift my finger from the guard, slowly moving it toward the trigger itself. The gap between them is so so small.  
In the fleeting moment between moving my finger from the guard to the trigger, his eyes, also locked on mine, come back into focus.

“Thank you. I love you.” He whispers, a small smile begins to spread across his face. A single tear rolls down his cheek.

I feel like I’ve been punched in the solar plexus; completely winded. I try to gasp for air, but his words have torn through my ribcage and seized my heart, squeezing it, digging in his perfectly filed nails and freezing my body; the opposite of the warm embrace that used to hold me.

I have to break away, once more from him, before I fall into the bottomless eyes that stole my heart.  
And before I know it, my finger is on the trigger before the tear can drop from his chin.  
And I’m pulling it.

The world doesn’t end in slow motion, by the looks of things. The bang of my gun resonates around the field, sending resting birds into the air, and animals scurrying. Although the birds continue to fly away, the bullet has already reached it’s destination; lodged in his head.  
I watch as he falls onto his knees, and then slumps onto his side.

One more tear begins to fall from his other eye. It trickles out of his tear duct and across the bridge of his nose, rolling onto the eyelid of his opposite eye; half closed, and staring blankly. Blood seeps from the bullet hole at the center of his forehead dyeing his golden hair a sinful red.

There’s a smile on his face. It looks like the kind of smile he had when he was just watching me. I always thought I understood him best; but why did he have to come back now and show and expression like that?

My throat constricts as I try to swallow. My adam’s apple has swollen to the size of a cantaloupe and is blocking both my esophagus as windpipe, making it impossible to gulp back my hatred for myself. The realisation of what I’ve just done is kicking in. 

Again, my eyes begin to water. The tears build up around my waterline and gather on my lower eyelashes as I make no attempt to stop them forming.  
I blink once, and my eyes gloss over. I silently thank the devil that I won’t need my eyesight to finish the deed.

I’d always wondered what the taste of death would be. Some say bitter, some say sweet; they question dying the same way they question love.  
I think that after being relieved from a cursed life, his may have been sweet. Being the one doing said relieving, I wonder if perhaps my end might be bitter. Or maybe my final moments are turning me into a pessimist. 

I’m sure if I were to live any longer, my life would be about as enjoyable as gnawing on raw ginger. Ginger full of outward facing needles, all red-hot, dripping with lemon juice and piercing into my gums in between my teeth, torturing me. Life rubs salt in my puncture wounds, telling me that what I did was wrong; that I deserve all the pain in the world for this.

My hand clenches around my gun, and the sentiment etched into the worn grip reminds me that I didn’t do this on a whim, that there was an ultimate purpose for all of this. It was time for it to end. I was content.

The feel of my thumb on the hammer was no longer unwelcome. The sound of the gun cocking wasn’t a noise that lingered. It was a sound of sweet solace; the beginning of a process that would soon take me away from a life that would be bitter should I live any longer.  
Watching the revolver turn, readying my own bullet, helps me breathe again. My throat is clear and so is my mind. 

My arm no longer feels as if it has been replaced with lead. On the contrary, it’s light enough for me to cheerily twirl the pistol around around my finger. The feeling that I can ease my mind of this torment makes me feel as though I’m floating on cloud nine. It’s crazy. Maybe I’m going mad, too. 

I raise my pistol up to my temple, taking a steady, deep breath. I blink again, and tears pour out of my eyes, rinsing my face of its glumness. Tears of relief, to wash away the broken-heartedness that’s stained it in the days of his absence. 

I feel a lopsided smile stretch across my own face. Good to know it wasn’t some small, sad smile like his. I close my eyes and my lashes, wet with tears, drip some more down my cheeks.  
My finger moved from the trigger guard; for the last time.  
I release the air from my lungs in a light chuckle. 

“I love you, too.”

I put my finger on the trigger, and pull.

**Author's Note:**

> constructive criticism is welcome


End file.
